


In mist and memory

by Tomlintummy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Immortal Merlin (Merlin), Lonely Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Merlin Waiting for Arthur Pendragon's Return (Merlin), arthurs needy even if it takes merlin so long to notice, it really isnt youve seen him, its not my fault merlin likes to stew, thats angst folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:35:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27402091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomlintummy/pseuds/Tomlintummy
Summary: Through the mist of memory,you wander back to meArthur waits for Merlin in rest.And Merlin, Merlin just waits.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	In mist and memory

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off a poem by Helen Forrest called "Deep Purple" and a whole buncha tag ranting on a tumblr post. 
> 
> I wrote this in about two and a half hours after waking up from a dead sleep and didn't do much editing. Godspeed friends. Godspeed.
> 
> And bonus points for the edit that lit the fire under my ass and got this all going :)) 
> 
> https://witchmd13.tumblr.com/post/633979873221853184/niallhood-witchmd13-when-the-deep-purple-falls

Merlin finds Ealdor when he can no longer find Camelot. He sends his king, his protector, his heart, away on a wooden boat with whispers to find the peace they had worked so hard to achieve, to rest now as he could not in life. 

The golden thread that had once led him home is missing, lost to the mists of Avalon with his king, his friend, his stars. 

His mother is not surprised to see him. Her eyes, all that had once been warmth and love and home, are darker, sadder, more understanding. Of course she understands. Of course. 

The sun had set. The moon was nowhere to be seen. 

Of course she understands.

__________________

_ I'm not going to lose you. _

__

_ Just...just hold me. Please. _

__________________

He had fallen into her arms and sobbed until he slept, her hands soothing and gentle as they ran over his cheeks and through his hair. It did little to help, her fingers being replaced with ones covered by leather gloves and her voice fading into declarations of gratitude the moment darkness found him. 

Merlin would wake with tears coating his face, Hunith long asleep herself, and would vow not to sleep again if it meant reliving that over and over. He would not sleep. He would not eat. He stopped talking, after awhile. 

When the letters arrived telling him magic had been restored, he nearly set the letter ablaze before finishing it. He didn’t, desperate for the familiarity of Gaius’ careful writing. He wishes he had. 

Gwaine had found a king worth dying for. 

Ealdor didn’t feel like home anymore either, after that

__________________

_ Everything you've done... _

_ I know now, for me, for Camelot, for the kingdom you helped me build. _

__

_ You'd have done it without me. _

__

_ Maybe. _

_ I want to say something to you I've never said before. _

_ Thank you. _

__________________

Merlin left Ealdor.

When his mother's pitying looks became too much and the townsfolk buried under his skin enough to send him packing, Merlin didn’t stay to change their minds. This time, when Hunith said goodbye, they both understood what it was. He would not return to Ealdor for the same reasons she had never spoken of Balinor. This was a pain time could not heal. 

This pain would not dull, would not leave him, but would become a part of him just as Arthur was. It would not leave. But eventually, eventually, he would learn to live with it, with distance and a few centuries, if he was lucky. 

Merlin leaves, but the dreams stay. He hopes to go where they cannot find him, where his king, his sun, his moon is at rest and not plaguing his. 

But here, in the village where he had been Merlin, once, he was little more than the weight of mistakes.

Here, in the village where he had been Merlin, once, he was little more than a dirty coin lost to the mud. 

__________________

_ When the deep purple falls, _

_ over sleepy garden walls  _

_ And the stars begin to flicker in the sky, _

__________________

Merlin did the only thing he could think of to remove the mud.

Merlin went in search of water. 

He built a small house at the shore of Avalon, with windows enchanted large enough that he could see the tower from any corner of the small cabin, even if the sight sent his stomach rolling. It was still too soon, he suspected. Arthur would not leave only to return within a few years. When had Merlin ever been that lucky? The concept of luck always brought back crooked grins brighter than the sun and the two syllable pronunciation of his name, so he did not think of it often. Instead he busied himself with familiar chores, the polishing of weaponry, the collecting of herbs, the tending of his now blossoming garden. 

Just in case.

_ __________________  
_

_ I haven’t seen you smile these past three days. _

_ Im not sure theres a great deal to smile about. _

__________________

The dreams change. 

Now, instead of gratitude, all Merlin hears is  _I love you, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to leave you_. 

How funny it was that his dreams thought he hadn’t understood what his king, his one great love, his Arthur, had said in his final moments. He understood. They never needed to say much to understand one another. 

The dreams change. 

Merlin doesn’t.

  
  


__________________

_ Through the mist of a memory, _

_ You wander back to me _

__________________

When the waiting became too much, when the tower seemed too tall, Merlin went off to see the Albion he'd helped Arthur create. He took a satchel of parchment and ink and just  walked . He sketched the places that he'd never been to before, never seen from the back of a horse with red lining the edges of his vision, and while he'd done a poor job, at least he'd done  something . The farther he walked, the quieter the dreams became. 

On his trek home, after what had been hundreds of miles and quite a few months, he makes the bold decision to stop in Camelot to purchase enough painting supplies for a small army. He'd never be able to tell if it was luck, destiny, or some cruel joke that he'd arrived in time to mourn Gwen, missing her by a mere week. 

He returns with cart after cart of belongings, shoulders heavier than they've ever been at the news of the late queen, and expended the most magic he's used since sending Arthur away to create a vault beneath his cabin to accommodate Arthur's things. Leon had been shocked to see him, considering Merlin hadn't aged a day in the nearly forty years he'd been gone, but had handed over each item as if he knew no one would care for or treasure it better than him. Merlin swore it was his mind playing tricks on him, his own immortality going to his head, but he swore Leon looked much younger than a seventy year old man should. He didn't ask any questions, didn't pry to know what became of the rest of their friends, and had accepted the gifts and had left without looking back.

Always without looking back. 

His cabin stayed inhabited by one. The one room slowly filled with hundreds of paintings and sketches, parchment and paint found on every surface covered with scenes of the Albion Arthur knew best. The chaos reminded him of Gaius' chambers but it did not feel like home. Nothing was home, not anymore. 

The surface remained still. 

Merlin waited and ignored the guilt of not saying goodbye. He ignored the dreams of his king, his soul, his purpose whispering  _I’m here, Merlin, I will not leave you, I will stay, I will stay._ He wouldn't fall for it. 

Merlin waited, and Merlin painted. 

He didn't any get better at any of it. 

__________________

_ Leave me. _

__

_ Now's not the time for jokes. _

__

_ Please leave me. _

__

_ Sure, whatever you say. _

__________________

He awoke one day with the startling realization that every person he has ever known was no longer living. Not even the children in the market he tended to sneak sweets to. The month that followed became a missing period of time that Merlin could never recover. It wasn't often he left his bed, if the piles of sleeping drought on his bedside table told him anything. It scared him so much he began to write every boring, meticulous detail of his day down each night before he settled to bed. Slowly his days weren't enough and he owned hundreds of leather bound books filled with all he could remember of Camelot, now that no one was left to remember it with him. 

The years had been far quicker than he expected. Shouldn't a century feel longer? 

And yet, all remained the same. 

At least he hadn’t dreamt. 

__________________

_ Breathing my name with a sigh, _

_ in the still of the night _

_ once again I hold you tight,  _

__________________

The third century waiting was the first where he really snapped. 

"How long am I to wait, you absolute selfish prat? What are you so damned busy with that you're taking your time like this?" Merlin screamed, echoing through the trees and across the serene blue surface, "How long do you expect me to sit here and twiddle my bloody thumbs while you take a nap? How long do I sit here and polish your armour, keep moths from eating your damned clothes, only for you to stay exactly the same? You probably aren't even listening to me, you self-centered  clotpole ! You can't even give me that much!" 

Silence. It always resulted in silence. 

There were no tears in his yelling, no sorrow or despair to be found in the warlock at the shore of Avalon. Only anger, built up and denied over the lifetimes he'd spent waiting. He'd never allowed himself to be angry before, to let the dam loose to release from him in the destructive rush he'd known was inevitable, not when the guilt and grief seemed to outweigh everything else, still. Three hundred years of stewing in guilt had felt like enough. 

"You always had to be cryptic, didn't you? Couldn't ever just say exactly what you needed to! No! Never 'Yes Merlin, I am upset about that' and never 'No Merlin, I won't be in Avalon long' and always just absolute ridiculous silence! Is this punishment for telling Gwaine about the Trident? I tell  one  of your damned secrets and you punish me for three hundred years? You ass! You absolute ass! Isn't all this enough?" 

His bellows were accompanied by the ground beginning to shake, trees swaying dangerously around him as the wind picked up speed. They were not spared even a glance as Merlin's fury only skyrocketed, fists balled at his sides and face red from screaming. It didn't matter.  None of it mattered. The ground could crack beneath his feet and swallow him whole if it chose. It wouldn't change anything other than the fact he wouldn't have to look at that damned tower any longer. 

Come to think of it, why  had he been looking at that  fucking tower for so long? 

"I hate you for this! I hate you for doing this to me! You got to die first, didn't have to watch Camelot-  life go on without you! How dare you!" His throat was raw and voice hoarse as lightening struck the white stone stretching into the sky, the flash of light blinding him momentarily, "I was made to serve  you,  you toad-faced prat, and now what am I to do? What am I to do?" 

Merlin's knees found the grass as the sky parted above, rain washing him over and erasing the tower from view. 

"What do I do, without you?" 

Merlin's hands found the mud as his chest heaved, the sobs finally erupting and washing away his anger. His shoulders shook, fingers gripping into the ground to keep himself upright. What was life without Arthur? Hadn't he waited long enough? He spent his entire life waiting for Arthur in one way or the other; waiting for the right time to tell Arthur his secrets, waiting for Arthur to see the light in magic, waiting for Arthur to become the glorious king he was. He was just so damn  tired . 

When his hands lifted, the rain didn't steal away the mud coating his palms fast enough, the ghost of arms wrapped around his back holding on for dear life, a crooked nose pressed into his neck with the sounds of relieved, joyous laughter echoing in his ears finding him in the mists of his memory. His eyes flutter shut at the sound enveloping him whole, the warmth seeping into his shoulders and neck tickling where Arthur always pressed his nose, despite the mud Merlin had been covered in head to toe, the pull of his king, his prince, his other half, grounding him once again. Merlin could barely remember how to breathe. 

For a moment, he was  here . For a moment, he was  home .

The rain washed away that, too. 

__________________

_ This is one of the two, possibly three moments in my life where I've actually been glad to see you. _

__

_ My thoughts exactly, sire._

__________________

At some point looking at his horrible paintings of Albion, he becomes unbearably frustrated that in all this time, he's still absolutely a useless artist. He couldn't let Arthur return to these renditions of his home. He couldn't. His king deserved better. Merlin had to give him _something_ to make up for all he'd ruined. He must. He must. 

He packs them all up and moved to Italy for three years. He comes home with new versions of each drawing, painting, hell, even sketches on journal pages, redone to perfection and a few bonus sculptures that take quite a bit of magic to travel with. It isn't until he's leaving that he realises he's made friends (friends who hate each other but adore Merlin to pieces), people he'll come to miss, who he'll someday learn the inevitable demise of, and that saying goodbye to them didn't feel like starting over. Somehow, it doesn't weigh him down like he expects. Somehow, it makes him feel almost lighter. 

The dreams do not follow him. He takes his time coming back. 

On his way home he stops in London to see how its changed and accidentally makes a playwrite fall in love with him. He brings home copies of the sonnets, just in case it will make Arthur smile when he returns. Merlin can almost hear him laughing, _a summers day, Merlin, really?_ and doesn't blame the phantom of him, not even a bit, because it is ridiculous, isn't it? That he is compared to a summers day when Arthur was always the sun, bringing life and light and purpose to Merlin's world. Of course it was ridiculous. 

His decades away felt longer than the centuries he'd stayed. 

_ __________________ _

_ Though you are gone, _

_ Your love lives on when moonlight beams _

__________________

It never gets easier. 

He destroys the tower completely soon after he returns. 

It reappears, shiny and new, the next morning without fail. 

He destroys it enough times to lose count, only to see it return again. 

It never gets easier. 

____________________

_I use it for you, Arthur, only for you._

__________________

The dreams change.

He is no longer holding Arthur as he whispers reassurances, sweet nothings stained red, but standing at his side staring over Avalon together, speaking, truly speaking, as they once did. 

The dreams change and the moon remembers to rise. 

Merlin finds it hard to wake.

__________________

_ And as long as my heart will beat, _

_ lover we'll always meet _

__________________

Merlin doesn't remember a single moment of the eighteenth century. 

He slept through every second of it. 

_ __________________ _

_ So, when is the big moment? _

__

_ This afternoon. No time like the present. You'll be there shall I need you. _

__

_ I will? _

__

_ You will.  _

__________________

"You took your damn time." 

Merlin smiled at the voice, eyes still shut, taking in the feel of grass beneath his head and a solid body at his side. The sun was slowly starting to warm his face, the whisper of summer carrying through the air and settling him deeper into the grass. He took a deep breath just to feel his lungs fill with blossom-sweet air, his muscles loosening with each exhale. 

“I didn't realise you were real. I thought I was running from a memory.” 

“You always were a bit thick.” He laughed at the hand smacking into his arm and finally opened his eyes to meet the man hovering over him, a hand planted close to his ear and a hand lain over his chest, over his heart, "Don’t do it again. I hate not being able to reach you." 

Merlin smiles. Here, nothing has changed. 

“I won’t. The world is too loud now, anyway, too metallic. It’s better here.” 

“Of course it is. I’m here.” 

“Yeah,” Merlin smiles and pulls Arthur closer by the nape of his neck, “yeah.” 

“Stay, my love,” His King whispers, lips brushing the shell of Merlin’s ear, “stay, please.” 

“Always.” Merlin winds long fingers in silken golden hair, his soul pressed right at his side, and promises, “I’ll never leave you again.”

"Thank you, for waiting." Arthur breathes against pale skin, lips soft and tender as they wash him over, "All this time." 

"You waited, too." He sighs the words before melding their lips together, erasing all the doubt and guilt they'd carried for so long. 

"Yeah," His heart breathes, then after finding Merlin's lips again, "For you. All of it." 

Merlin smiles. This, at long last, he knew. 

They watch the sunrise together. 

Here, nothing has changed. 

Here, nothing will. 

_ __________________ _

_ You’re not saying goodbye _

_ No.  _

_ No. _

__________________

_Here in my sweet purple dreams_

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote two others of these with much happier feelings to them but. Its Merlin. He's a giant ball of angst 24/7 and it rubbed off.


End file.
